X-Ray Vision Ch. 10: Partnership

Billie was unfazed. "Mrs. Jones? Hello! I'm Billie from Billie's Recovery. We're here at Mrs. Starr's request, to find some items she's misplaced."

A look at Mrs. Starr for confirmation got just a confused look. Fecundity looked dubious, and Greg could see they were about to be hustled out.

"I'm sure we can clear this up. This morning we received a phone call from Mrs. Starr. Billie took the message," and here Billie showed the notebook with the neatly scribed time, name and address.

"We've come by to help in any way we can. Mrs. Starr very kindly made tea, and suggested we might find her late husband's coin collection. Which we are confident we can do. Provided we can identify a safe place to keep it, perhaps with a trusted friend? A lawyer or banker?"

Mrs. Jones was set back by this. "Um, her friends are mostly gone. She has a lawyer, had a lawyer. Haven't paid her in ages, no money. In fact, I've not been paid in ages."

Greg's estimate of Fecundity went up three notches. This kind visiting nurse was here on her own, out of the kindness of her heart, not abandoning an old lady. On her own dime, buying groceries.

This could not stand.

"If I could get the lawyer's name and contact information? I believe we can clear this up today. Get you paid, get the lawyer paid. Get the coin collection safely in a deposit box, to be valued later."

It was happening a little too fast for the kind nurse. She stood numbly, her day upended, uncertain how to proceed.

Billie took charge. "Let's start this way. You'll fetch the coin collection, work forward from there, worry about the rest once we can see there's something to be done?"

Fecundity nodded, not sure where this was going.

"Greg, would you show this kind lady upstairs? She can witness you searching, verify the collection was found in this house, belongs to Mrs. Starr? We'll sit here and chat, finish our tea."

That seemed like the best approach. Groceries put away, the deputized search party trooped back to the entryway and up the stairs, careful not to knock over any mail stacked on the steps.

Billie distracted Mrs. Starr while the goings-on went on above. When a scraping clumping noise came down Billie explained "That's just Greg, finding Alfred's coins! I'm sure he'll clean up any mess!" Mrs. Starr agreed, men could make such messes, why her Alfred used to track mud from the carriage house right on the carpets! Every time it rained, she had half an hour of scrubbing!

They came down shortly, a dented copper flour canister in hand, Mrs. Jones looking dazed. Greg cleared the tea away, sat the canister on the table. Eased the top open. Held out Mrs. Starr's hand gently, tipped the content.

More than a dozen bright shiny coins slid onto her palm, spilling onto the table. Each with a vividly embossed eagle or seal on one side, a classic figure or face on the other.

Mrs. Starr's face lit like a Christmas tree. "Oh! Oh! Oh!" She could not speak, seeing these beautiful things again after what, decades? A quarter century!

"Double Eagles! From the last century, early this century, Alfred's father's collection. Worth enough to pay all the bills, renovate the house, keep Mrs. Starr in groceries forever."

Mrs. Starr had no interest in that; she just kept turning the coins over in her hand, smiling, remembering the coins, remembering Alfred.

...

Mrs. Jones had an old Chevy sedan which took them to the lawyer's office, smoking and rumbling. One coin, a lesser-value one, left with Mrs. Starr. To distract her, and to remind her of Alfred.

They met in the senior partner's office.

"I'm not Mrs. Starr's lawyer any longer? Our arrangement had to be terminated two years ago. She no longer could pay even a nominal fee, which I'm legally bound to receive to represent her interests."

The lawyer was not a bad sort as such persons go. Middle-aged, lined face, a severe look but kind for all that.

"If I can make good on that, in Mrs. Starr's absence?" Greg fetched out a roll of bills, handed it over. "And such work as will be required to get the coins valued and sold? An advance."

The lawyer called a clerk who counted the bills and made out a receipt.

"Shall we examine these coins? To see what all the fuss is about." Always pragmatic, lawyers.

Mrs. Jones had taken possession of the canister and produced it from her voluminous cloth bag. The lawyer opened it, tipped it gently onto her desk blotter, let them roll out, arranged the desk lamp. They all looked at the shiny, improbably splendid display. Collected new, a century ago, untarnished as only fine gold can be, untouched for decades, practically perfect condition.

"And this is worth, how much do you suppose?" A reasonable question.

"They are of course worth more than the $20 face value, in the gold alone. And as collectors' items their value is many times even that, thousands each. Double Eagles are famously collectible!

"Three are of special interest. Two from 1861. Those are in the tens of thousands. Maybe more, few exist in this spectacular condition."

The lawyer poked at the collection with one finger, extracted the two with that date, of old-fashioned design, busy. Found one more, dated 1907, somehow more beautiful than the others. Looked quizzically at Greg.

"Yes, that one is the finest. Struck just one year, the year of Roosevelt's redesign with more modern engraving, more suitable to the style of the age. With a special high relief, reverse image. At only two US mints. That one is worth many times the entire balance of the collection."

"How much are we talking? Enough to pay her back taxes? To get Mrs. Starr into an assisted living facility?" The lawyer was not hard-hearted after all.

Greg considered. "Enough to build and run an entire assisted living facility."

They looked at the coins with something like reverence now. Mrs. Jones sat heavily in the guest chair, tears on her cheeks.

"It's been hard! Keeping her in groceries, doing her laundry. Trying to keep her from burning the place down! You don't know how many times I've come over to find the burner on..." She started bawling, just letting it out, the stress of years suddenly relieved. Billie stooped over her, hugged her, held her until she settled.

"I suggest, if you would be agreeable Mrs. Jones? That Fecundity be named her guardian. She's clearly the one most invested in her well-being, has the longest history with Mrs. Starr. In her present state a familiar face would be a great asset."

The lawyer gave her a questioning look? and got a slow nod.

"To facilitate that, it would be desirable for Mrs. Jones to have a reliable car, a grocery budget, a reasonable stipend for all her services? Paid by the estate."

Again, the lawyer thought that possible, signaled the clerk to begin taking notes.

"I'll get these put away safely, arrange for them to be valued in the City. Start on paperwork to get Mrs. Jones assigned as guardian."

"Get her back pay! She hasn't been paid in years!" This from Billie.

A note made, and that was that. They left Mrs. Jones with the lawyer, working out the details.

On the sidewalk Billie stopped Greg, looked him long in the face, then folded him in her arms and just held on for a while. Eyes tight shut, against any unexpected outburst of emotion.

Greg waited, content, until she was able to go on.

"That one is one me, I'm afraid."

Billie frowned, glared at him.

Greg explained. "We didn't get paid! I did that. I guess we can call it 'market development'? Word-of-mouth public relations."

Billie punched him in the arm, hard. "Dummy."

Rubbing his arm, smiling, they continued downtown toward their next appointment.

...

On the way Greg started haring off the route to pick up stray valuables. A charm bracelet buried in the grass by a parking space, silver, engraved 'MC' whoever that was. Cash stuffed under the back seat of a stripped car in an alley near the bar, maybe a few hundred, funny the car thieves had missed it.

A stained, sun-faded bank bag on a ledge over a dumpster, maybe dropped from above? Anyway just a few fives and tens.

The best one: the old disused coal chute of a last-century brick four-story apartment building, containing a bundle of cash wrapped in a yellowed newspaper, nearly two grand.

Billie was checking the date on the paper.

"That was there a long time! You had to have seen it before?"

Greg looked abashed. "I don't like to dig in coal chutes; I put that one off until I needed it."

Billie shook her head. "You didn't 'need it' today! You're just showing off!"

A grin. "Yeah, well. I thought I'd let you see how I do it, how I can find stuff just by looking, how far it works. That's the idea this morning, right? Getting to know each other?"

Billie nodded. "Sure. It doesn't look a lot different from you remembering where you hid something, going back to get it. I know! You didn't put that stuff there, probably a botched drug drop? But anybody watching would just assume you put it there. Otherwise, it makes no sense."

Greg agreed. "I've gotten a lot of slack that way, folks just assume there's some reasonable explanation, that I'm just eccentric. I guess I've never worked very hard to explain, just let them think There goes crazy old Greg!"

She was silent for a block, getting close to their next site. On the last corner she stopped, looking at the ground, thinking, then facing Greg. He took a few more steps, noticed he'd lost her, turned, waited patiently for what he seemed to know was coming.

"Why?

"You found what, a week's income just wandering around. You don't need this business; you don't need me. Why are you here? What is this all about?"

She was plainly conflicted, wanting this to work, wanting their partnership to be legitimate. But faced with Greg's clear lack of need, her doubts were surfacing.

He said it plainly, as she knew he would. But with defensive body posture, arms crossed, looking away, then looking at her.

"We are partners, so I'll be straight with you. I need this business for about the same reasons as you do. I need to be taken seriously. I need to do important things for other people. I need..." He stopped there, closed his mouth.

Billie got frustrated. "Out with it! Stop deciding what to tell me, what to hold back! I'm not a kid! Would you edit your answers to Nick? To Jillian? I'm tired of being spoon-fed, all my life silly half-answers to important questions. Just say it!"

Greg's mouth half opened, a dumb look like he was just caught doing something stupid. Shook his head, dropped his arms, now an open posture, now she knew she'd get everything from him.

Collecting his thoughts, he looked over her shoulder, then straight in her eyes. She'd not noticed how piercing his look could be, how he could literally look straight through her, see everything. She wanted to flinch but suppressed the impulse, stared right back.

"It matters! The money - I need money too, I grew up poor, I need to respect that, my parents worked hard for every dollar. I've made quite a pile by now, mostly like this, a few dollars at a time, occasionally more but all put away against hard times like I was taught.

"I figured out, Jillian helped me figure out, that money matters but far less than people. Now everything I do is for people, now that I have enough money for me, for us.

"But I have to respect boundaries, how my friends see the world, where they are in their lives.

"We're very careful with money, Jillian and me. Because she is like me, needs to respect it, what it represents. The hard work, the careful spending, not wasting. That's how we decided to do it, how it works best for us.

"For you and me? I think you need to know that what is yours, is yours. No question about you deserving it; no blurring the lines. And what is ours, what the business has earned, tracking how well we are doing - that's a goal for you, so it's the goal for us.

"You are very welcome to everything that is owed you! Including every business expense, every fee you earn. Nothing is too small to treat seriously, nothing is too large either. It all matters, making our business profitable, showing what we can do."

That was a lot, and Billie took a while to process it. She understood it cost Greg something to reveal his feelings. Now she understood his gift of time and emotional support cost him something too, a price he was willing to pay to be part of her life, their business.

And it was something she was very hungry for, to be important in another person's life, to be respected for her skills and efforts.

Blurting out, "I never had any money that was mine! It was all taken for family, or for church. I just lived on the crumbs they left me.

"That makes me, I don't know, nervous about cash, about being trusted with it, about being trusted at all. It's all new for me. I don't know yet how to manage it.

"I want to be a good partner, for you, for Jillian. I don't want you to regret you ever meeting me."

Greg knew that, had seen her anxiety. He could work on untangling those feelings right now.

"Billie! You are very smart, very intuitive, more than me by far. As good as Jillian at understanding people; maybe better.

"I want to help explore how good. Because that's all I have now, now that money quit motivating me. Helping people.

"You are an amazing woman! I want to be around, be important to you while you do your amazing things! Trusting you completely the whole time so you can go further, try everything without fear, I'm your backstop, making the money part work, letting you accomplish all the important stuff, do more with it than I can even guess."

They stood facing each other for a bit, breathing hard. Greg talked out, Billie stunned, not blubbering but nearly.

"Ok then."

"Ok."

They resumed walking, each with their own thoughts for a bit. Finally,

"What's the biggest you ever found? Those coins?"

Greg smirked. "I'll tell you about that some other time."

...

This client lived in a remodeled Victorian. Pretty well done though some of the gingerbread was missing, the gables now had just slatted vents instead of windows. Probably no longer used the upper floors, too hard to heat and cool.

A knock and the door answered by a middle-aged gentleman, impeccably dressed, hair just so.

"You must be Billie! Come in! Come in!"

He ushered them into the foyer, carefully relocked the door, led them to a sitting room. Who has sitting rooms in this day and age!

A compact grand piano, an overstuffed settee, some old-fashioned horsehair chairs with hard seats. Chintz wallpaper. Greg didn't know what chintz was, but this romantic floral pattern had to be it.

Billie started right in.

"What can we do for you? What have you lost?"

He looked stricken, dramatically so. "Florentine! The love of my life! The man of my dreams! I'm late getting back one night after theatre, dress rehearsal! and he's gone!"

Billie checked her notes. "He leave any effects? A note perhaps?"

"Nothing! As if he never existed! Even the picture of his dear mama, taken from the piano!"

They could see the place where the dust was disturbed, one of the pictures removed.

Billie thought it best to be blunt.

"And you don't think he might have just left of his own accord?"

Vehement shaking of the head. "Florentine despised such cowardice! Many was the time we criticized others for leaving unsaid what needed to be said! He would never have left without telling me, telling me..."

Here he got emotional, couldn't continue. Took out a too-large handkerchief (who carried handkerchiefs?) and blew his nose.

"Had he been behaving differently? Perhaps worried? Tired?"

That got a nod. "I was concerned, he has had trouble in the past, the horses, you understand. I was going to confront him, ask him if he was in debt. I've bailed him out before, when he has had his, difficulties on the turf."

"So, you think...?"

"I think he may have been spirited away by some sinister person, perhaps some underhanded money lender? He may be in a basement somewhere, tied to a chair even now!"

Billie didn't think that likely. You didn't get money from someone by tying them to a chair. His best source of funds was standing right here! No sensible loan shark would sever than link.

She made some notes, tapped her teeth with the pen, thinking.

"So... no note. Picture gone. Clothes...?"

He nodded. "His closet is empty! His suits! Those silk shirts he loved! Probably taken to pay the debt!"

Unlikely; used shirts wouldn't garner much. She'd seen them in the thrift shop for a few bucks.

"Do you mind if I look around?"

Enthusiastic agreement. "Would you like to see our room?"

Billie didn't answer, just stood and looked around the parlor. At the piano; lifted the keyboard cover, the top. Nothing.

The end-tables - a few knickknacks, a framed picture or two. The room was in fact scrupulously tidy, no room for anything to be hidden or mislaid.

She spoke over her shoulder, looking behind furniture, "He expected you to be late?"

Annoyed, she got an answer. "Yes, I told him to expect me at 10. What are you looking for? You're not going to find him behind the couch!"

A nod, but she kept poking around. Retraced her steps to the foyer. Greg followed, curious how this was playing out, no idea what Billie was up to.

The wallpaper was imperfect, a tear here or there. Shabby-chic. Victorian photo on one wall, some staid matron looking into the middle distance. A clumsy landscape in watercolor. A patterned wool carpet, a little worn, a little stained, a little ragged around the edges.

Greg didn't 'look' at anything, he hadn't been invited on this one, it was all Billie for now. He just watched her, tried to imagine what she was thinking.

Clearly, she expected to find something, but what? A clue? A stubbed-out cigarette? A bloodstain? A cryptic message? A ransom note?

She went to the door, fingered the mail slot - sealed against tampering, no longer usable. Felt around the door frame, for what he couldn't imagine. The frame was tight-fitting, no gaps or secret latches.

She unlocked, opened the door, went out on the step, turned and looked back. A letterbox - empty. A pot to one side - tip it up, a key underneath, not a good idea at all but still no inspiration.

Greg saw it an instant before Billie did, had read it by the time she'd tugged up the frayed carpet at the threshold, pulled out the envelope containing the note.

Their client had followed them out, face clouded in confusion but now a look of anguish washing over. Billie handed him the note, pushed under the closed door as Florentine had left but somehow ending up under the tatty carpet instead of on it, hidden from sight.

The man unfolded it with shaking fingers, started to read, crumpled. Greg waited to see what came next, but Billie took him gently by the arm, led him out onto the stoop, pulled the door quietly shut.

"What did it say?" Billie knew what it was, a Dear John letter, but not what it said.

"I've always thought of being in love as being willing to do anything for the other person -- starve to buy them bread and not mind living in Siberia with them -- and I've always thought that every minute away from them would be hell -- so looking at it that way I guess I'm not in love with you."

Billie cringed. "Pretty harsh. But better than lying and stringing him on, using him to pay gambling debts."

"What about..."

Billie shook her head. "I don't want to make money off of peoples' pain."

Greg conceded. Billie was his partner, she didn't want to charge for this one, and that was that.

As they walked to the street Greg offered "We're shit at getting paid."

Billie smiled gently, punched his arm again.

...

"This one is the two brothers, veterans, their war medals came up missing."